


your perfect other (your perfect opposite)

by coalitiongirl



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), The X-Files
Genre: Crossover, F/F, at some undetermined time in the future, or the past, the times and ages don't add up but literally who cares? not a&e that's for sure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-01 23:49:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11497365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coalitiongirl/pseuds/coalitiongirl
Summary: “Hang on a second,” Mulder says, holding up a hand to intervene. “Youknowthat she’s been in her thirties for thirty years?” He has a light in his eyes, that dangerous glint that means that he’s set on some terrifying nonsense that’s about to get them both killed or arrested.Mills’s eyes narrow. “Are you calling me old?”“Sixtyisthe new thirty,” Swan offers helpfully, smirking at Mulder and wincing when Mills elbows her. It’s like looking at a mirror image of themselves for a moment, and Scully sighs, suddenly certain that they won’t be making it out of this town before nightfall.





	your perfect other (your perfect opposite)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DiazTuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiazTuna/gifts).



> So!! It's your birthday in my time zone, Tuna, shh just let it happen. Happy birthday!! Here's a silly little fic about Scully and Mulder trying to make sense of Storybrooke and also Swan Queen (and one of those is more difficult than the other). 
> 
> This fic doesn't require any prior knowledge of the X-Files, but it does require a lot of selective knowledge about OUAT, so if you've seen that, this is probably more your jam. Oh! And this isn't my Swan Queen Week fic, that should be out in, like...ten hours. Enjoy!!

“Mulder, this is absurd,” Scully says, squinting at the underbrush they’re zooming past. “There’s no murder to investigate here. There’s no missing person case. We’re traveling to the middle of Nowhere, Maine–” 

 

“Storybrooke, Maine,” Mulder corrects her, angling a little too hard at a turn in the road. 

 

“I’m not repeating that name,” Scully says, leaning back in her seat. “–to  _ Nowhere _ , Maine, on our own dime, during a much-needed FBI-mandated vacation, because of an anonymous tip?” 

 

Mulder grins to himself. “It’s a good one.” 

 

“Let me guess.” Scully eyes the road, sighing again as a big  _ Welcome to Storybrooke  _ sign appears in front of them. “Aliens.” 

 

“Scully,” Mulder says, his voice dropping into exposition mode. “Three reports of tornadoes from the middle of Maine in a single year. Several dozen earthquakes. At one point, eyewitnesses swore that a massive wave of refracted light swept through the town, and at another, the entire town was engulfed by a purple cloud of smoke.” 

 

He drives down the road. “The mayor of the town, one Regina Mills, has been mayor for the past three decades.” 

 

“So she’s efficient,” Scully says gamely. “Probably spends less time than your average government official hurling pencils at the ceiling.” 

 

Mulder hands her his phone. “Here’s a recent photo of her at the reopening of the town library– which, according to rumor, previously housed a massive reptilian creature.” 

 

“Rumors. Great.” Scully takes the photo, then quirks an eyebrow. The woman in the photograph is attractive, hard-eyed, and looks to be in her thirties. “I want the number of her plastic surgeon,” she says, but she’s still staring at the photo, her brow creased. “You win,” she says at last, grimacing. “We’ll take a look around. Figure out  _ Storybrooke _ ’s secret.” 

 

* * *

 

They exit the car at a bed and breakfast on what looks to be the main street of the town, lightly populated with a peppering of absolutely ordinary-looking people. There are no purple clouds or reptilian monsters, and they head inside to find food and some rooms.

 

Their first clue that something about this place is  _ off _ is when the woman behind the counter takes one look at them and then raises her crossbow. “Who the hell are you supposed to be?” she demands, eyes narrowed. “The cowboys from Toy Story? Jessica Rabbit? Moana?” 

 

“They’re  _ white _ , Granny,” a blonde woman says from the counter, shifting to look at them with vague interest.

 

Granny scoffs. “That’s never stopped them before.” She aims her crossbow, and Scully reaches for her badge just as the blonde woman steps between them. 

 

“Sorry about that,” she says, and her eyes are wary but thankfully not murderous. “We don’t get a lot of visitors around here. I’m Emma Swan.” She jabs a thumb at the sheriff’s star hanging from her waist. “What brings you to our quiet little town?”

 

_ Now  _ Scully retrieves her badge. “We’re FBI agents, actually. We’ve heard some odd reports from this town.”

 

Sheriff Swan’s gaze is suddenly decidedly unfriendly. “I’m sure you haven’t,” she says. If the photograph of the mayor hadn’t convinced Scully, the way that the sheriff’s shoulders straighten and her eyes narrow certainly does. “We’re just an ordinary town full of ordinary people. Granny, do you have any muffins left?” she says, almost defiantly, as though she’s trying to prove her ordinariness. 

 

“Take a few,” Granny says, shrugging. “Bring some to your wife.” 

 

Swan blinks at her. “My what?” 

 

“I said, bring some to the mayor,” Granny repeats.

 

“Oh.” Swan bobs her head, smiling briefly at Granny. No, she’s smiling at the muffins, the gaze of truest love. “Okay.” She loads up a bag of them, brushing past Mulder and Scully none too gently. “Welcome to Storybrooke,” she says, her tone anything but welcoming.

 

Scully smiles back blandly, turns to the counter, and says to the woman with the crossbow, “We’d like two rooms, please.”

 

* * *

 

There’s only one available, they’re told, and they’re shunted to a corner of the second floor, right by the stairs. When they make it upstairs, a man walks by with a little monkey on his shoulder, and Granny shoos him away before she shows them their room. 

 

“One bed. Sorry about that,” she says, sounding not very sorry at all. There’s an odd light that flashes past the window, then a cackle from the next room, and Granny heaves a sigh and says, “I’d better go.” She slams the door and leaves them alone in their room. 

 

“It’s a big bed,” Mulder volunteers, and he’s grinning boyishly at her, the kind of smile that she is absolutely not going to think about for the next ten hours. 

 

Scully says, “Let’s solve this before nightfall,” and ignores Mulder’s pout as she settles in front of the TV. The local station is broadcasting a weather warning for…a midday meteor shower?

 

“We don’t have any reports about how long it’ll last, but we do have Robyn here for some insight,” the announcer says brightly. He crooks a finger and a little redheaded girl toddles onscreen, beaming at the cameras. “Robyn, what are we looking at for today?”

 

“Colors!” Robyn announces. It’s just the sort of cutesy small-town TV that Scully would expect from a place like this, complete with zany special effects like the sparks of color that dance from the little girl’s fingertips and… 

 

...Set the announcer’s suit on fire? “That’s for standing up my mum,” the girl says smugly as the crew rushes forward, someone shouting for water and someone else shouting for the mayor. 

 

Mulder says, “I’d probably keep an eye out for those meteor showers.” The TV screen goes black.

 

* * *

 

There are, in fact, meteors at noon, and not flashing through the sky like shooting stars. Scully is nearly hit by a massive rock the size of her head when they’re headed out after lunch. It lands right behind them, crashing into the pavement, and a twenty-something seated on the steps to Town Hall frowns and says, “I didn’t write that.” He looks up at them, tilting his head. “You must be the FBI agents.” 

 

“That’s right. I’m Agent Mulder, and this is Agent Scully.”

 

The kid blinks at them, his eyes settling on Scully. “Oh, boy. You’re the ‘hot lady who looks like a young Gillian Anderson,’ aren’t you? No wonder you made it over the town line.” 

 

“Who’s Gillian Anderson?” Scully is beginning to feel more and more out of her depth in this town. Sure, there are freak accidents all over the world when the weather is right– instances of raining pets and frogs and meat– and there's scientific explanation for them, though she doesn't think that they’re usually predicted in advance. And the spontaneous combustion stunt had been exactly that– a stunt. The announcer’s suit had been good as new when the program had come back on.

 

But there is an odd quality to this town, and she clears her throat and says, "That’s right, I am an FBI agent. Would you like to help me with my case?"

 

The boy's face lights up. "Would I like to work with Mulder and Scully on a case? Hell yeah!" 

 

They both gape at him. “Maybe he’s an avid follower of the X-Files,” Mulder mutters to her, sounding just as bewildered as she is– which is a much-appreciated first.

 

“Mulder, even I'm not an avid follower of the X-Files,” Scully retorts. But she sits down beside the boy. He looks to be in his mid-twenties, wearing a scarf he’s long outgrown in the middle of the summer, and there's a heavy book on his lap. “How long have you lived in this town?”

 

“Fourteen years. Since I was born,” the boy offers. He frowns. “Actually, I spent one year in New York, but that was when I didn't remember who I was.”

 

Scully puts  _ that _ aside for a moment and clears her throat. “Have you ever witnessed anything...unusual?” The boy stares blankly at her. “Purple smoke?” she tries. The boy keeps staring. “Rainbow lights? Tornadoes? Some sort of grand secret about this town?”

 

The boy’s eyes light up. “Oh, yeah, there's a secret,” he says. “Everyone knows it. But you can't say anything.”

 

* * *

 

“There's no secret,” the mayor says. She's just as attractive as her picture, maybe more so, and she rakes her eyes over Scully once with a gaze that leaves Scully’s mouth dry. The sheriff lurks behind her, leaning against the wall of the mayor’s office and glaring at Scully every time the mayor gives Scully a once-over. “As…flattering as it is for you to take an interest in our little town, we have nothing to hide.” She flashes a bright smile at Scully that has Scully’s head spinning and Mulder scowling at her.

 

“That’s not what the kid outside said,” he says. 

 

“The kid–” Swan shakes her head in realization and opens the window. “Henry!” she hollers out it. “Henry, get your butt up here!” 

 

“That’s our son,” Mayor Mills says, waving it off with a flick of her hand.  _ Right.  _ Scully had read about Mayor Mills’s son in the online bio. An adopted kid the mayor is raising with the boy’s birth mother. “He has a…very active imagination.” 

 

“He once went to Boston to bring me back here because he thought this whole town was full of cursed fairytale characters,” Swan says helpfully. Mills tosses her a look. Swan shrugs. “He’s pretty ridiculous.” 

 

The boy dashes into the office, his eyes wide. “Hi, Moms. Agent Mulder. Agent Scully. What’s up?”

 

“These nice detectives seem to think that this town is hiding a secret,” Mills says pointedly. “They heard it from you, too.” 

 

Henry’s eyes widen and he shoots a significant look at Scully, a hand cutting across his neck in a universal  _ shh _ . “What? That’s crazy. No secrets here. I’ve never even met these people. What are the X-Files, anyway? Sounds fake.” 

 

“The X-Files!” Swan slaps her forehead. “ _ That’s  _ why your names are so familiar. I’ve never seen it.” 

 

“Very few people have,” Scully says, baffled. Why is a little town in Maine one of the only places they’ve been where they’re recognized? Why is Mills turning to Swan with a look of utter outrage on her face?

 

“You’ve  _ never  _ seen it?” Mills demands, recoiling from Swan as though she can’t bear to be near her anymore. “What have you been  _ doing  _ for the past thirty-four years?” 

 

“Some of us were kids in the nineties,” Swan shoots back. “Not all of us were frozen in time with nothing to do but watch bad TV–” 

 

“How  _ dare  _ you.” 

 

“Hang on a second,” Mulder says, holding up a hand to intervene. “You  _ know  _ that she’s been in her thirties for thirty years?” He has a light in his eyes, that dangerous glint that means that he’s set on some terrifying nonsense that’s about to get them both killed or arrested. 

 

Mills’s eyes narrow. “Are you calling me old?” 

 

“Sixty  _ is _ the new thirty,” Swan offers helpfully, smirking at Mulder and wincing when Mills elbows her. It’s like looking at a mirror image of themselves for a moment, and Scully sighs, suddenly certain that they won’t be making it out of this town before nightfall.

 

* * *

 

“Yeah, there’s a town secret,” the redheaded man says, eyes already shifty as he looks away from them. “But I don’t think it’s really your business what two women are– Sorry,” he says quickly. “I loved you on The Fall.” 

 

“Right.” This is the worst vacation she’s been on to date, and that includes the one with the evil doll. “I am a federal agent, and I can bring you in for questioning–” 

 

“And what crime has Archie committed?” drawls a voice from behind her. Sheriff Swan. Of course. This is the fifth civilian she’s spoken to, and this is the fifth time either sheriff or mayor has interrupted them. She’s beginning to think that they’re being tailed.  _ No.  _ Swan had tripped over a twig at Scully’s last interview and crashed into a table of ice cream eaters in the process. There’s no way she’s capable of silently stalking them. 

 

Scully sends off a quick text to Mulder,  _ Swan again _ , and is startled when he responds,  _ No, she’s here _ . 

 

“What–” Scully twists around and Swan is gone. She yanks out her phone. “Where are you?” 

 

“I’m by a farmhouse out at the edge of the woods. I found the spontaneous combustion toddler,” Mulder says, sounding a little breathless. “Swan gave me a hand, but I don’t think this jacket is going to survive this vacation.” 

 

Swan says something in the background, and Mulder clears his throat and says, “She sends her regards.” 

 

Scully mutters some choice comments at  _ that _ .

 

* * *

 

If there’s a secret in this town, Mills and Swan are clearly determined that they never find it, and Scully climbs into bed that night with no answers and a building migraine. “This is ridiculous,” she grouses. “We’re not getting any answers from the townspeople, and no one seems to take our badges seriously. One of them actually asked me why she should give me any answers if I’m not going to transform into a wolf and threaten her. Is this a reality show? I know we’re a bit behind the times sometimes, but is this just a prank that we haven’t figured out yet?” 

 

Mulder shrugs, but that dangerous gleam is still in his eyes, and Scully says wearily, “Please don’t tell me you’re going to transform into a wolf.” They’re stretched out on the bed beside each other, Scully propped up against the headboard and Mulder’s head resting against her hand, and Scully slides her fingers through his hair absently.

 

“I have an idea,” he says. “A singularly appalling idea that may get us both thrown into Sheriff Swan’s station cells– or the asylum she warned me about, where they’re currently holding a man who believes that he is, in fact, the hunter who shot Bambi– but what’s a vacation without some incarceration?” 

 

She quirks an eyebrow. “You haven’t told me what your idea is and you already want us to set up His and Her cells at the station.” 

 

He grins up at her. “Do you trust me, Scully?” 

 

Five minutes later, they’re back in their clothes and walking through the town, lurking outside the station while they wait for one of the deputies to leave. He’s taking his time, chatting with someone as he tidies the desk, and Scully grabs Mulder and yanks him back when she sees who it is. 

 

“It’s fine,” Henry is saying. “Mom had something to take care of in the vault tonight, anyway. She won’t know if I’m a little late–” 

 

“Your mother  _ always  _ knows,” the deputy says warningly. “Let’s get you home.” 

 

“But Gramps–”  _ Gramps _ , from a man who looks younger than Mayor Mills herself. Scully is learning, very slowly, to take all of this in stride. “ _ Fine _ ,” Henry grumbles, and he follows the deputy from the station. 

 

“So how about those two FBI agents, huh?” the deputy asks. “They claim they’re here on vacation.” 

 

“They want to know the town secret,” Henry says as they walk past Mulder and Scully. Scully flattens herself against the wall, holding her breath as she waits. “Can’t we just tell them the truth?” 

 

“That’s your moms’ decision,” the deputy reminds him. “They get to choose who finds out and when. It’s why we’ve all kept quiet, isn’t it?” 

 

“It’s  _ dumb _ ,” Henry grumbles, but he climbs into the deputy’s jeep without another complaint, and Scully is left without any answers yet again.

 

* * *

 

Breaking into the station is easy enough. Finding out anything remotely helpful, however, is an entirely different matter. “They have an entire section in the file cabinet labeled  _ Curse-Related Crimes _ ,” Scully says irritably. “Here’s another with the name  _ Potions Gone Wrong _ . How does this town run if everything is written in code?” 

 

“With a mayor with three decades of experience,” Mulder says lightly. “Scully, have you ever considered that these aren’t in code at all?” She can already hear the monologue in her mind, the reminder of ancient cultures with behaviors that can’t be explained by nature, the reminder of cases that only make sense if you believe that aliens have tampered with the atmosphere and allowed something superhuman to flourish.

 

She says, voice like steel, “ _ No _ .”

 

There are fifty-two complaints left unfiled and unlabeled in one drawer, stuffed below boxes of envelopes as though they aren’t meant to be seen. All fifty-two are complaints about Regina Mills, which simultaneously kind of sweet and really unethical.

 

“Two complaints regarding kidnapping, from a Michael Tillman and someone who just calls himself  _ the Mad Hatter _ ,” Scully reads. “A dozen complaints about places she’s apparently set on fire. One from the town of Storybrooke for  _ breaking the clock tower face when her sister threw her into it _ . Six that all appear to be from Henry and are appeals to his other mother to spare him a grounding. This one isn’t even a complaint, it’s a dinner invite,” Scully says, disgusted at how  _ ridiculous  _ this is. The dinner invite says  _ Emma– please deliver to Regina _ , and has apparently never been delivered.

 

Mulder picks up one of them. “This complaint is addressed to the  _ Evil Queen  _ and insists that Mayor Mills transported the complainer from a perfectly nice hut in the middle of the Enchanted Forest and made them  _ slaves to capitalism _ .” 

 

“Sounds about right. Who signed it, the seven dwarves?”

 

“Just Sneezy, Sleepy, and Doc, actually.” Scully looks up. Mulder looks back, his face dead serious.

 

She snatches the note from him. “Give me that.” And  _ dammit _ , she really wishes he’d been screwing with her. 

 

“We aren’t going to find anything here that explains this town,” she finally decides grimly after they’ve torn apart the entire sheriff station. Mulder gives her a  _ look _ , the  _ why won’t you just believe in magic and curses and fairytales and oh right, aliens _ look, and she determinedly ignores it. “Let’s call it a day and come back here tomorrow. They have a nice-looking beach a few blocks after Main Street. I wouldn’t mind actually getting a break from the X-Files while we’re here.” 

 

Mulder falls into step with her, pout firmly in place. “But first the case, right?” 

 

“We don’t  _ have  _ a case,” Scully points out as they head back into the bed and breakfast, down the hall and up the stairs. “We just have a town where nothing seems to make sense. But there’s a scientific explanation for every single event that we’ve seen. It’s just highly improbable that–” She freezes. There’s a sound of papers shuffling in their room, of hushed voices and movement.

 

Mulder catches her eye and nods, and they creep in together, Scully pulling her gun and swinging forward the moment Mulder opens the door. “FBI!” she calls out, an automatic reflex. “Who’s there?” 

 

The room is silent, but their files are  _ everywhere _ , strewn across the room with folders open and bags searched. Someone had had the exact same idea as they had, and Scully knows grimly who it is.

 

She steals over to the sealed closet and yanks it open, revealing a very startled Mills and Swan. They barely fit in the closet, pressed together with their arms wrapped around each other to compress their bodies against the other, and their lips had been nearly brushing before the door had been opened. Now, they only gape at Scully, their arms still tight around each other. 

 

“I told you we should have poofed instead,” Mills grumbles.

 

Swan’s hands slide a little lower on her back. “But isn’t this more fun?” she breathes, and she twists around to smile at Scully as Mills sighs and extricates herself with shocking reluctance. “We must have gotten the wrong room,” she says. “We were looking for…” 

 

“For Ruby’s closet,” Mills says quickly. “To borrow her…clothes.”

 

Swan looks a little dreamy-eyed suddenly. “What a great idea,” she says. “You, wearing–” 

 

“We should go,” Mills says loudly.

 

Scully stares at them in disbelief. “You just searched a federal agent’s room. Without a warrant. And you think you can  _ leave _ ?” 

 

“We were just looking for clothes,” Swan says, at the exact same time as Mills says, “We can get a warrant.” Because the justice system here is corrupt, of  _ course _ . Nothing can run as it should in Storybrooke.

 

And neither can Scully or Mulder, apparently, judging from the way that they both stand there openmouthed as Mills and Swan saunter out of the room (okay, no, Mills saunters, Swan swaggers) without them doing a thing.

 

* * *

 

It all comes down to the vault that Henry had mentioned. If the key to this town-wide secret is in there, then they’re just going to have to find it. “We’ll search her house,” Mulder decides in the morning.

 

“I thought we were going to the beach?” She sighs at his look. “Let’s keep an eye out for the mayor. If she’s really plotting something in some vault somewhere, that’s probably the easiest way to find her.” 

 

So it’s another day of wandering up and down Main Street, asking casual questions of passersby. “I heard you want to know the town secret,” a woman with wild orange hair says conspiratorially. Scully tilts her head. She knows better than to trust that anyone in this town will ever give her helpful information. “You know who likes to tell secrets? Snow White. Ask  _ her _ .” She smiles a thin-lipped smile. “As though  _ she’s  _ going to get to be the maid of honor after fucking  _ this  _ up,” she sniffs. “I’m Regina’s  _ sister _ . I deserve this.” 

 

“Are you the one who threw her into the clock tower?” Mulder asks curiously. 

 

The woman beams at him. “Such happy memories. I do miss turning annoying people into flying monkeys.  _ Maid of honor _ ,” she mutters under her breath. “The  _ nerve _ . As though mother of the other bride isn’t enough.” 

 

“Snow White,” Mulder says when she’s walked off. “You know, I definitely heard Granny mention that name yesterday.” 

 

“Don’t.” 

 

“We can find her and–” 

 

“ _ Don’t _ .” Scully has her limits, and chasing down a woman who calls herself Snow White is just past them. 

 

Chasing after a tinted Mercedes that  _ might  _ be bearing Mayor Mills, though, remains on this side of the line. “There,” she says, years of FBI training and instinct kicking in at once. “That’s got to be her.” And Mulder, being Mulder, takes off at a run after the car, even though their rental is  _ right. next. to them.  _

 

Scully stalks after him, her heels clipping against the sidewalk, and she sees before he does when the car turns sharply to the left and into the cemetery. Mulder whirls around, limbs flailing, and starts into the cemetery, and Scully catches up to him just in time to yank him back before Mills sees him.

 

She parks her car and emerges from it, walking through the cemetery with purpose, and Scully follows her from the parking lot to a mausoleum near the middle of the cemetery. Mulder is right behind her, and they peer through the doorway and watch Mills push a casket aside and disappear down a set of stairs beneath it.

 

“Here we go,” Mulder breathes. “The truth.” 

 

“And then vacation,” Scully says fervently, and they creep down the staircase, into the dark of Mills’s vault. 

 

The room is lit by candles, and there’s an odd-looking beaker on a table that looks as though it might be a science experiment of some sort. Scully’s relieved. Science, at least, is something she can deal with.

 

Less simple to deal with, however, is the wall of drawers that are  _ beating _ , thumping like hearts and little red lights shining from each of them. Mulder whispers, “Scully, are you seeing what I’m seeing?” 

 

“I really don’t want to answer yes to that,” she murmurs back, and then they round the corner to the least surprising twist yet. 

 

The corner is lit with soft candlelight, the walls flickering in a way that make the dark, odd vault seem welcoming and homey, and Mayor Mills and Sheriff Swan are in one corner beside the candles and kissing passionately. They’re wrapped so tightly together that Scully can’t see where one begins and the other ends, and they pause only to press their foreheads together, noses brushing as they beam at each other.

 

Scully clears her throat. Swan is kissing Mills again, their audience gone unnoticed, and Mills is sliding a hand into Swan’s jeans, squeezing her ass as Swan jerks toward her. Scully clears her throat louder, her cheeks flaming. Suddenly, for some indefinable reason, she misses Reyes. 

 

Finally–  _ finally _ , Swan clearly groping Mills’s breasts– they realize that they have company. “What the  _ hell _ ?” Swan says, stumbling backward. Mills’s hand is still caught in her jeans, and she tries yanking it out but only manages to elicit a groan from Swan. They shift, rearranging themselves so they’re standing close enough that Mulder and Scully can’t see Mills’s hand and that she can free it from Swan’s jeans, but Scully sees no sign of her actually doing it. “What are you  _ doing  _ here?” 

 

“We were…investigating that town secret,” Scully says numbly. “That you insisted didn’t exist.”

 

“Well, you got it,” Swan snaps. “Happy? Now you know. Regina and I are together, and if you  _ ever  _ breathe word of this to  _ anyone _ –” 

 

They stare at her, wordless and openmouthed, and Mulder finds his voice first. “Wait,” he says, holding up a hand. “Wait.  _ That’s  _ the secret?” 

 

“Not the still-beating hearts in a drawer?” Scully says disbelievingly. “Not the  _ potion _ on that table out there? Not the spontaneous combustion or the meteor shower or the fact that one of you didn’t age for thirty years?” Even she can’t buy that this is all  _ natural _ , that there’s a reasonable explanation for all of it. Well, maybe if it’s very convincing. “The secret is that you two are sleeping with each other?” 

 

Swan shrugs. “The rest is kind of…par for the course in Storybrooke. This is different.” They turn to share a long, affectionate look, and  _ yep  _ Mills’s hand is still in Swan’s pants.

 

Mills turns back to them, her eyes flashing. “Those drawers will be holding your hearts, too, if you reveal our secret–” 

 

Scully can’t help the near-hysterical laughter that erupts at that threat. “Everyone  _ knows _ , Mayor. We’ve been here for a day and we know.” Granny’s  _ send some to your wife _ , the deputy’s  _ they get to choose who finds out and when _ , Regina’s sister already squabbling over wedding party roles… “This whole town is waiting around for you two to admit it to them, and they’re guarding your secret like it’s the key to the X-Files themselves.” 

 

“No, that can’t be,” Mills says, but she sounds uncertain. “There would have been at least one angry mob at my doorstep.” 

 

“I would’ve stopped them all over again,” Swan announces, and Mills looks very nearly starry-eyed at that before she remembers herself and rolls her eyes. “But Regina does have a point.”

 

Scully sighs loudly enough that both Mills and Swan look offended. “No. This is ridiculous. I quit this case. I quit this town. I quit this vacation, and if you don’t drive us out of town right now, Mulder, I’m going to quit the X-Files, too.” She wants to go  _ home _ . Maybe look up Reyes and get drinks with her, just to catch up. She wants out of this hellish town full of too many attractive people where nothing–  _ nothing  _ makes sense.

 

“Hey!” Swan calls after her, and she pauses and turns around, waiting for some  _ explanation  _ that  _ matters,  _ that might make sense of everything in this town that doesn’t add up. Instead, she gets a very sheepish Swan, and a, “So, like…is the X-Files a Disney property now? Is that how this is happening?” 

 

_ No. Absolutely not _ . She whirls around again, hurrying up the staircase with Mulder’s “ _ Scully _ !” echoing behind her as he follows. 

 

_ Vacation _ . On a beach  _ without _ dragons.

  
  



End file.
